


Be Still

by LegendofMajora



Series: Empty Love [2]
Category: Durarara!!
Genre: Angst, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Past Relationship(s), Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-07
Updated: 2015-03-07
Packaged: 2018-03-16 16:36:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,195
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3495359
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LegendofMajora/pseuds/LegendofMajora
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Far away from each other, Shizuo realizes something in the dead of another sleepless night.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Be Still

The sound is unmistakeable.

One week after the fight—not quite a fight, just more of a one-sided empty dump on the side of a highway proclaiming the other dead on the scene, too tired to care and too numb to feel much of anything. On the side of the road like roadkill dragged with the patches of blood still on the ground until the rain washes them off and Shizuo still feels like day one when he goes to sleep, empty and cold and a warm body next to his is meant to ward off the feeling of being too lovesick. As long as the sheets curl around him he can pretend there is someone meant to be there and in one week in after a long haul of dealing with himself and the numb parts of being a patch of ice start to crack and swell, Shizuo thinks he can manage with the consequences.

In the middle of the night Shizuo is dead asleep after two sleeping pills too many and restless nights beforehand slugging over his shoulder under the sharp wound of a hole drilled in between the third and fourth rib on the left side. He's fine, he's okay, really, and he wonders at times if Izaya is much better off without him if he doesn't feel anything at all when it comes to saying anything or speaking of the flea—it's best not to, as time starts to wear heavily on his shoulders. Tucking himself into sheets of one empty bed, larger than his old one and spent with combined finances on just slightly larger and cramped comfort in being together. Wrapped up so tightly and draped over him, Shizuo feels the sheets more than the buzzing calm of a cigarette Izaya hates so much. Lighting up hasn't come since the first stupid idea he's had and it's best not to continue now when going clean for the reason of habit. It's the one thing that keeps him in bed and able to be unconscious after too many sleeping pills, some bitter leftover wine, and aching eyes reaching his sinuses in the uncomfortable feeling of losing too much.

When he first hears it, he doesn't think much of it. Kind of like whimpering, and kind of like slow rain. A confusing combination that doesn't make much sense to his sleep-addled brain mixing with the chemicals of drugs that will be sure to wear off so soon because of his body's metabolism. A curse and only manageable by a kiss sliding over his mouth and someone warm and tied around him because letting go in the middle of the night is impossible. No matter the cramps and aches in the morning from being uncomfortable—mainly Izaya's, ha ha—and he starts to realize there are certain things he's never seen. Like never seeing Izaya anything below his usual self, even though his own bad days come and go like the rain in Tokyo which never has a scheduled deadline, blaming it on the shitty weather and the ocean to bring out the best and worst of a bad day gone wrong. There are times he questions if Izaya has them too, which of course he should because he's somewhat human and somewhat a fucked-up being like he is. A god, whatever he wants to call it.

So he hears this sound and it kind of keeps moving, like a tape repeating over and over. And the same repetition of tossing and turning on his pillow when he can't feel anyone else under the sheets so it's clear Izaya must have moved over to the wall by now, cold and starting to shiver at one in the morning when the time comes. His hand seeks, reaching for the strange warmth Izaya can bring but can't use to warm himself up when he hogs all of the sheets and demands Shizuo hold onto him until he can feel his (fucking _freezing_ ) feet. It's nothing new in their routine and Shizuo's hands are large enough to wrap around how skinny Izaya is when they slither beneath the sheets, barely awake and partially numb from sleeping wrong. The sound is still there, quiet and little plops on sheets like a dripping ceiling and he knows it's not raining outside, so that part doesn't make any sense at all.

His fingers touch a spiny back, tracing the knobs of Izaya's spine and in a dreamlike fashion he runs his fingers up the trail of vertebrae, careful of moving over every ridge poking through the skin when Izaya's back is curved toward him and his skin is warmed from the bed. Izaya must be sound asleep when he doesn't move into Shizuo's touch, ghosting at the base of his spine and traveling up to his hip and rising on the fabric line of where skin and boxers meet (borrowed ones, Shizuo finds it interesting and undeniably sexy when Izaya wears his boxers) and he doesn't shudder. In fact, it doesn't have too much of an effect when Shizuo's sleepy mind denotes that Izaya's chest isn't rising and falling like it normally does. Nothing creepy or weird at all, knowing the sleeping patterns of the incorrigible flea who steals too much heat and complains of never having enough sleep at nine in the morning with dark bruises under his eyes. Shizuo finds it another quirk of Izaya's, no matter how childish it actually is and as long as Izaya doesn't squirm too much, he's fine with the dripping noises that tang in his nose like blood with the salty smell staining the sheets.

The scent is salty and sweet, like blood. Alarms are only starting to sound off by three hours late in his ears and echoing through his brain.

Nothing feels wrong.

All of a sudden he feels it—the quick shiver of muscles rippling tightly, coiling back together as soon as they come undone for a shudder that races like live wire conduction through Izaya's skin. The quiet little gasp, not meaning to be in surprise but in trying to breathe and swallow air over the sticky smell of blood on the bed and Shizuo wonders now what's going on. He keeps tracing over the skin, pressing in a little further so that Izaya's skin is warmer to the touch and just past the feather-light touch like kisses without much thought. Again, he hears the little noise of breathing through water and sounding like drowning in his own wait of one week too many spent alone of empty nights and empty sleep that doesn't feel right, but Izaya's right next to him—it's not supposed to feel that way. It'll be fine soon—that's all he can think about (Izaya's next to him, it's okay it'll be fine there's nothing wrong with anything at all) and presses a little further into the quiet gasps that sound like hiccups.

Izaya, Izaya, _Izaya—_ wake up, what's going on? Shizuo listens a little more, softening his own breaths and still so very sleepy, chemicals mixing in his brain and tampering with his blood to convict him of the crime for insomnia that Izaya usually suffers and it's _all his fault_ and the hiccups prove him wrong. He can hear them and they sound like throaty gasps of the bad kind like forgetting to breathe or when Izaya has a knife through his lungs and it's one of the worst possible nightmares because Izaya can be so small at times Shizuo doesn't think he can breathe right when things are finally so perfect and uncomfortably _tight_ and aching, squeezing every last word like breaths pulled over his tongue and from every crevice between his teeth.

When his fingers catch on Izaya's skin, he hears the quiet inhale choking over something wet and deep in Izaya's throat, rumbling in his own and he figures it must be the drugs or his imagination when the plopping sounds continue again and again. Like dripping from an open wound the salt deters him from going back to sleep, along with the hiccuped quietness of trying too hard to be still. Izaya's body shivers with electricity pulsing in between the barrier of skin and Shizuo and shivering even if he's not wearing a shirt and that's partially Shizuo's fault. Nothing like no memories of one week ago and any insomnia must be a coincidence with hallucinating that he's actually hearing rain starting to fall inside of his apartment inside of his brain. Drowning and coughing, rearing to gasp as soon as he can break the surface and realize he's not the one drowning.

It's the body next to him, the one his chest hollows itself at the comparison of blanching when he realizes there is nothing left to feel—that's not right, it can't be right at this point if it hurts to forget this. He's probably hallucinating it but he thinks he hears the shadow rolling down the hill to cover him in darkness as soon as he hears more punctuated breaths, sharp and wet and filling with mucus sliding down an aching throat—it's not his, it's not his, it's not _his—_ so maybe he shouldn't ask. The blond isn't entirely sure what's going on or if he's hearing things.

Izaya's chest twitches and shivers abruptly, breaths sounding heavy and tight and it's the first breath of relief and realizing that Izaya is the one making the noise because it's not him. The dripping like plops of water that smell bitter like salt and ugly with the rain in the springtime (completely unwanted, why does he feel this way) like the sound of something unwarranted. Completely useless, unexpected, and unnecessarily throwing him off sleeping and the little window of time is starting to close. Izaya shudders and trembles beneath his touch and there shouldn't be a reason when he presses a little harder into the flesh, saying he's here he's here he's still here and there's no reason to be shivering in the bed still cramped not matter which way the flea bends and breathing in the scent of Shizuo and shitty flea.

He wants to say Izaya's name, but his lips don't make a sound no matter how much he tries and so he shifts, arm coming to wrap around Izaya's chest and feeling the tremor of a halt to Izaya's breaths, too nervous too tired too much to make another noise and if he does everything will fall apart. Shizuo is painfully too gentle with his arm making its way over Izaya's skinny arms, falling and draping like the fresh coat of what he thinks is rain as it continues sliding onto the pillows. Nothing about it is quiet calmness but clamming up to be acrid and sour and like the hard candies that go sour with too much time being left ugly and torn apart. As long as the silence drags on Shizuo still hears Izaya's breaths, a little louder by now and just as wet and long like sighs when he gets the chance to think clearly, coming and going far too quickly. The sound can't be blood—it's not supposed to be anything of the sort. Just quiet and fluttering and feeling like an open wound with the raw ache of having too much to breathe through and Izaya doesn't move in his arms besides the voiceless tremor of breathing painfully.

It sounds like something he's not familiar with. Since Shizuo doesn't express the emotion of sorrow all that much or as well as someone with anger can, he doesn't know the feeling of reaching past a certain point and never being able to bring himself clawing back. Never having really any experience with these things he can't be sure that the sound of dripping and the inhale that sounds struggled, like sniffling with a cold but it's much too purposeful this time, he doesn't know what to think. It almost sounds like the feeling of bleeding from an open wound and pouring the salt in—it would describe the salty smell. But the sweet pungent stain on his skin when he pulls himself closer can't mean blood or any other body fluid from a wound because Izaya is okay, perfectly fine with him and it's so early in the morning he can't think beyond wanting to know if he's hearing things.

Even if he doesn't say anything he still presses Izaya against him with careful movements, knowing the strength he can exert but he doesn't for fear of breaking something he finally gets to have. It's all so tentative with precise movements and it's the monotony of not wanting to break what he has all too soon and try not to lose what he can hold onto. He can't break Izaya and he doesn't want to make any more mistakes than he already has, knowing this one to be walking on a line so thin that Izaya's hidden smiles in between his smirks are wider than that. And maybe Izaya—he's never know what the flea's thinking in each and every word he utters, defiance and confidence that wears thin but he's never seen the inside. It's (almost) too painful to see something more broken than himself. It's also why he doesn't expect the reaction he's meaning to have when his other hand comes up to Izaya's face, fingers sliding up the flea's throat and it feels too real when he reaches cold drops gathering on skin.

It's not blood. It's not it's not it could _be_ something else at another time and not in this way of sleeping at night and insomnia troubles with chemical imbalance so he must be hallucinating. Same as the way of moving uphill last week and tumbling over himself in the stupidity that it could be when it can't be how things play out. Not yet.

Izaya turns in his arms, entire body curling inward and uninviting for any other meaning than Shizuo pressing into him, conforming around the mold and really he's so small in comparison to a monster like Shizuo. His face buries into Shiuzo's bare chest, never comfortable with sleeping and having artificial touch of fabric against his chest when Izaya's breaths, unsteady as they are in the middle of the night and not sleeping, the bare sort of feeling is always better than having to toss and turn amongst himself and cold slick sheets. Nothing is perfect about either of them and Shizuo with his lack of emotional control doesn't know what to call it when his brain starts talking at a murmuring quickened rate when the salty wetness stains his skin and feels like rubbing salt into an open wound of the stab wound reaching behind his back and just grazing the tip of where his heart still beats.

It's not what he thinks. What he thinks is all _wrong_ and just like the first melting of an iceberg he can feel the crack swelling deep into his chest when the entire facade starts to tremble and vibrate with a low groan of splitting himself apart. Because this isn't last week this is one week because he says the wrong things because he feels _too much_ to know what a good thing is supposed to feel like. Maybe in the morning he'll feel it when the sheets are damp and Izaya is around him, not speaking and still silent in nights of never getting sleep and Shizuo never knowing what the sound of breaking is.

Until he hears the sound of Izaya, wet trails of water soaking into the sheets and miles apart but so close and his eyes are barely opening at this point, thinking that he's not hearing what he's hearing and denial is such an ugly thing as soon as it leaves wet marks on the pillow and forgets who it is that's making the sound. It's Izaya right next to him soon to leave before he can open his eyes and breathe in the scent of salt and skin and too much breathy heaviness, lingering like the swelling ache in his chest starting to numb everything else with the icy roots. Everything feels too perfect to breathe right and they haven't been the same, enemies to friends to whatever this rush is in whatever emotions Izaya claims not to have and that Shizuo can't possess so they roll with what they have and it's never a bad thing as long as Izaya can contain himself and Shizuo can try to not say when he starts feeling off. Wrong, like this isn't going to work and maybe he's making mistakes when he tumbles over the words he thinks he means.

Izaya—he doesn't have to say it. They both know, as soon as Shizuo pulls the informant closer and starts to force through the lack of response within his thoughts and the drowsy pull of sleep that he's doing something wrong. Izaya is making noise, breathing over himself and so careful as to not move anymore when he still trembles, shuddering with each shaky breath that freezes and crystallizes as soon as he can force it over the wet lump building in his throat and no, he's not sure why it's there either. Why it camps out and pretends it's the important part of starting to drift apart and pretend it's not there when the ache is too much and Shizuo can't say anything, he wants to hold Izaya and tell him that it's alright even though they've not been through this before.

It doesn't make it okay. The sound, not rain and no chance of sunshine afterward for sure isn't coming from outside but between them, cold and trapped in the sheets while Shizuo holds on and Izaya doesn't say a word. Supposedly neither of them can sleep tonight and it's alright if he just listens for this once and they can sort it out later when Izaya can collect himself. This isn't like him and so Shizuo won't pry for the sake of preserving dignity if meaning that it won't fall in the crevice of the slowly growing space in between every single thing he's been striving for in having this relationship. Breathing in shallow inhales through his nose Izaya's teeth chatter, quietly and softly enough to not hear most of the time and they still quake throughout the echo of his body's muscles tensing and releasing in rapid movements. Still going to be his funeral with how much blood he's spilling by saying the wrong things and nothing at all that's meant to keep one of them alive and still holding onto this.

One week in, and he still doesn't know how to sleep by himself because holding on to Izaya is holding on to something replaced but not the same as before when it feels colder by the minute of Izaya and slippery wet sheets. Just starting to ache from the frost-killing hour of morning just starting to come in the nights of being too dark and too heavy to shoulder himself. Until he can realize that the wet sounds are within moments of each other and the tremors don't stop no matter how tightly he can hold on and try to whisper apologies or nothing at all when he's not good with these things. He doesn't know for sure how much he can break Izaya until there is nothing left to hold onto but shattered parts of himself he's not sure he wants to feel in the cuts of his hands.

They've never fought quite like one-sided apologies and even if Izaya doesn't get the chance to sleep at least Shizuo has the courtesy not to ask and not to poke fun at the later mornings more than usual of waking up and realizing by strawberry milk bleeding his head out in his hands that maybe he's doing the wrong thing. If it means letting go of everything he's been holding on to then he knows it means well in being nothing but a pitiful excuse for letting go of himself and the numb ache settling so deeply that it roots with veins and down to every last core of believing in things like touch isn't comforting. So long as he is still with not saying anything to worsen how rough the patch is between walking the line and the argument to _just go_ so he doesn't have to face every little nameless thing drifting between his thoughts. Uncertainty clogs his sinuses and rings in his ears just like the chattering teeth, and all he can do is stroke Izaya's back and pretend this happens instead.

Fairy tale ending, _happy_ to say goodbye and happy to give up everything meaningful to just forget what the numb ache feels like. As long as Izaya is there, curling up in the space before time exists and still the wet drops on Shizuo's bare skin feel a little more lively than he has been in weeks. He finds it shameful to never be able to look at Izaya—he's supposed to love him, the flea that's been permeating every sense from pain to pleasure—he has no reason. No reason at all to tell the flea to leave and no reason at all to hold onto him like this and it's just wishful thinking that keeps him alive enough to not feel the listless monotony of he doesn't know what's wrong with him. But taking it out on Izaya is the killing blow not as up front but as indirect as a hit and run with no apologies, no clean break, and blood spattering everywhere with each and every word he can bury into Izaya's skin instead of his fingers and lips when they don't feel like they belong.

The sound starts to fade, silence pressing in and without warning starting to take over with the chill of sheets on his skin. Shizuo doesn't want to wake yet, thinking that if Izaya's cold then he's doing it all wrong and he doesn't mean what he says but then he doesn't know what to say right. The feeling of not belonging, like Izaya with him is wrong won't help to change the irregular ache that plagues him with thinking of the flea in any way more than he can. Perhaps it's not being in love or any emotion at all and he's making this hard on himself when he thinks Izaya's not there, he can't be—he's not there, because he's long gone as of one week ago hit and murder while he can with the brutality of his own voice, too strong and too much at once—simply holding on.

Almost lover and almost friends (almost something that Shizuo thinks is too much of a good thing, that's why he may as well give up now) and certainly never holding on—the hiccuping gasps repeating in his head, heavy and thick lacing with the unnerved edge of not knowing what comes next. The least he can do is hold on, words never coming from his mouth because he feels so unsure for what to say and it's not fair to Izaya, still with him and never left when he has to be there. He feels so real, just like the wet sliding stains like blood when he stabs himself more than he stabs Izaya if he has the audacity to say it. He dares, with the intention of bleeding out every feeling of _wrong_ just to be human enough because monsters—they don't deserve nicer things like someone to hold onto even if it happens to be someone he's reputed to hate.

So why then, does it feel wrong? Why does the wet slickness on his arms and bleeding into his chest not feel there, even as heavy and coarse as it gets? Even if the stains in the sheets come out the traveling cold tastes like salt and scars, drowning in the rain that's not meant to be and it's for him that makes it harder. Izaya's eyes never leave him, lying in bed and the feeling of the stare that crumbles in front of him when he watches is just too much to think about. Shizuo doesn't understand himself and his own stupidity for doing dumb things in the morning when the thoughts swell on his tongue. He feels like melting and drowning in himself, lost and hopelessly confused just as stupid monsters are when they say _just go_ and there isn't an explanation for why and what he means. Just leave, and maybe he can sort himself out as soon as he can figure out how to fix the jagged edges of everything wrong with himself.

He can lie—say he's fine, say it's alright if Izaya really isn't meaning to be there in his arms wrapped up in sheets and smelling of him. Wearing his clothes and everything Shizuo can give even if his heart's not there and Izaya doesn't deserve the end of himself. Love is a stupid thing anyway and Shizuo can't manage what he doesn't earn so he keeps it to himself and then Izaya doesn't have to know how much the throb of the ache starts to affect him. From a simple headache to _this—_ it's all play pretend in a murder-suicide of the first degree with one death and no hearts left to pick up or scrape off the ground in a hopeless attempt of thinking he's worth more than just leaving on the sidewalk. Makes sense, giving up on himself like this.

Izaya leaves with the sad sort of smile that is a frown in hiding, waiting for killing season to end so he can come out from having to hide every expression that crosses his face. Shizuo knows—he's painfully aware of how much of his fault this is. Looking at himself isn't so much the chore as is opening his eyes, hearing the ring of sniffles in his ears when he hears Izaya breaking down in front of him and he's still asleep at midnight, insomnia strung tightly beneath clouds of painkillers and the wine that is Izaya's. He doesn't understand why he drinks it one last time to savor the taste and reminds himself of every smile he's seen from Izaya, from coy to shy to everything he knows of and things he imagines because he hasn't had the heart to taste. As if waking up with the window of time starting to shatter will untangle the mess he has, everything left to waste as soon as he's unsure of himself and _this_ so he kills and runs and leaves behind Izaya when it's easier not to care.

It's not easy, waking up. He hates the feeling and Izaya is still shivering, lonely and skin like ice and too slick to feel alive when Shizuo gropes for him, the sensation of familiar warmth fading fast when Shizuo's world becomes a little clearer. Maybe he's falling back asleep but he feels more awake than he has been—it's odd, confusing, wrapped up in a bubble of make-believe that it doesn't hurt when he's done everything wrong. All he has to do is just go back to sleep, pretend that he doesn't feel the sheets and wet spots but no body, not even to the edge of not forgiving him on the other side of the Earth. Shizuo gets to revolve around the one decision of one week lasting like the first day of being alone and his apartment is still empty but never empty enough to fully get rid of how much this is just starting to hurt.

Possible, then, that the hurt is the only thing he imagines when the quiet noises of a whimper caught in a breath reach his ears and he reaches out for Izaya, knowing that the flea still has to be there and he doesn't want to admit he's done wrong. He knows he's wrong and the things he's said are stupid and numb and swollen on his tongue, melting the iced permafrost set in over the thousands of seconds ticking by with just one week down. He can do this. Even if the sound of Izaya's soft noises starts to fade and his own pillow is wet, clutching onto his cheek in the voiceless words of _don't go_ and it's just too late to try.

Opening his eyes is the last thing he wants to do but he has to—there is no Izaya. There is no body next to his and it's only a little past midnight. The sheets are empty, cold, and messy like they've been with the nearly permanent indent of where Izaya used to sleep. Shizuo blinks, sleepily, the rest of the sleeping medications even with overdosing fading away after only three hours. Where his fingers grope for body warmth and where he thinks Izaya's spine is supposed to be like the hollow space of his chest where he doesn't feel anything but cold is silence. Ringing in his ears, breaths puffing in the stuffy shivering air of his apartment. The little window remaining right after sitting up in his bed, his pillow feels wet but the other one is still there and untouched by anything. Not even the sheets offer any explanation to the sounds and the feel and the touch of hallucinating not failing to convey himself properly.

Shizuo turns, grasping his pillow with his empty hands and coming back just as the bubbles of sleep pop from his mind, turning and twisting into the ugly reality that he doesn't have anything. He gave it up—that's the reason one week ago he has the burial of himself and Izaya, treating the flea like less than a human being and meant to take being thrown out. All the emotion behind every touch falling lifeless and limp, gone and buried in a shallow grave beside a road. Blood, he thinks, in every place the flea has been and he can't help but remember.

Oh. Because he's in the waking world, and this isn't the dream or nightmare he expects when he wakes up. There is no Izaya because he's done the wrong fucking things and he's fucked up by not saying anything at all—it feels all so wrong. Out of place, like a different planet in a different universe. They're just too different, he wants to tell himself when he feels the first pangs that have been growing since the moment Izaya left.

Shizuo rubs at his face—comes back surprised, feeling cold inky wetness tracing his palms. So he hasn't hallucinated at all, just (thinking of the wrong person in the wrong space in the wrong lifetime to fuck up everything he doesn't have) finishing a thought from uneventful sleep to knowing he'll never get any sleep.

And it's not supposed to hurt when he breathes in a shaky sigh, blinking and wet salt down to collect at his chin.

Anesthetized feeling, he reasons. It doesn't hurt.

It can't. Not like this.

But it does.

**Author's Note:**

> My betta fish, Izayan, died today. So I wrote this while very upset. I miss my baby. (/ _ ; ) Thank you to Mama Shizuwan for dealing with my angst while I agonized over my poor boy, and for helping beta this.
> 
> Next part comes later, just give me some time. I know this probably isn't so good, since when I'm sad the metaphors just come out.
> 
> Thank you for reading. ꒒ ০ ⌵ ୧ ♡


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